Outside the Lie
by Chasing Windmills
Summary: An injured Erik tries to hide his wounds from Christine. He fails.
1. Chapter 1

**This was originally supposed to be a one-shot, but it's running a bit long so splitting it into two parts! I don't usually ship EC (more of an RC person haha) but I really wanted to make something of this plot bunny. This is a bit of a canon-divergence AU, with ALW-musical characters, some Yeston/Kopit influence, and my own elements sprinkled within.**

**That said, thank you for clicking and I hope you enjoy the way this goes!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO**

* * *

In truth, Erik had never wished to take on a pupil. He had wanted nothing to do with the human race and a good decade or two holed up in the Garnier's cellars only served to further justify his wish. He was perfectly content living in his underground kingdom of one, where he himself was emperor and subject and everything in between. He had his music for company and the occasional tangle with the opera house above whenever he felt a spark of boredom. All in all, it was a vast improvement from the years he spent selling himself from fair to fair and king to king. He'd spent so long existing for the cruel pleasures of others that he thought it only fair he could waste away existing for the cruel pleasures of himself.

Then she had come along. Christine Daae. And like Typhon struck with lightning, Erik tumbled from his mountain into Tartarus itself. Burnt to a crisp, he knew better than anything he had ever known before, that she was the reason he had been born.

His wretched existence meant nothing in the face of her triumph. He was but a fly that had the fortune of gracing the air she breathed, and without a doubt, he existed so she could sing. He was born so he could listen.

He could listen to her voice and guide it to perfection, molding it to heights he himself could never achieve, for she had the soul to match that song. And when she longer needed him, he would fade back into the shadows as she ascended to her place in the light. He simply hadn't expected that day to come so soon, because for all his attempts at indifference, he had grown accustomed to the presence of the angelic Daae.

When she was still in the chorus, he had listened to their rehearsals from the rafters. Christine had never struck him as anything particular then. But there was a note of purity in her voice, obstructed only by nerves and doubt. If she could remove that obstacle, the chorus would be no place for her.

And then he had caught her again, singing to herself upon an empty stage. And like the wretch he was, Erik could not resist. Angling the brim of his hat so that it hung over as much porcelain as it could, he approached.

"Brava, brava," were his first words to her.

"Who's there?" she piped, cheeks red with embarrassment.

"An admirer," he told her, "you have a voice befitting the angels above. Christine Daae, are you aware of the heights you could attain with such talent?"

They had conversed, the young woman understandably reserved and somewhat fascinated. But before he left the shadows, she had hesitated and asked, "May I ask you something, Monsieur?"

"You may ask whatever you wish."

"Your voice, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Can it be?" She shut her eyes, as if wondering if it had been a dream or not. "Are you the angel of music?"

He had overheard her speak of the angel once to a colleague, eyes alight with joy. It was a tale that no doubt riveted her, but he had no idea she truly believed it. But seeing her then, he knew just what it meant.

"The angel of music sent by your father?"

Her lip had quivered. "Then… are you…"

And for that moment, the air had stilled. He had wanted, more than anything, to say yes, to win her innocent devotion and carry on as a faceless spirit. From then on, he could continue to hide behind mirrors and mold her the way he saw fit. She would love him the way she loved her departed father, perhaps more, for he would be the angel of music, a deity gracing her with its very presence. And by his side, that beautiful voice and that tender woman, would remain forever.

"No," he had said, stepping out at last to tip her with a light bow. "I am but a man, of flesh and blood."

That was not the life he wished for her. He foresaw great success ahead for Christine Daae. She could not be tethered to some supernatural entity if she wished to sing beyond the Garnier. What's more, such a tender heart did not deserve to be bound to filth like him. He made his decision- she would soar and he would be content to watch her fly.

He had offered her a singing lesson, and for all her humility, Christine was ambitious enough to accept. One lesson became two, then three and four. And soon, she was by his side for hours at night, sometimes in the abandoned prop room with its piano and the yellowing keys, and sometimes in his own home underground. But despite her shy demeanor, Christine had a certain bluntness to her opinions. When he had first invited her through the mirror, she looked at him with some apprehension and said, "Maestro, have you been watching all of us through the mirrors this whole time?"

Taken by surprise, he truthfully answered, "Thanks to these mirrors, I've been privy to far too many things I would rather _not_ have seen. Rest assured, Christine, that I would sooner blind myself than risk looking beyond the glass again."

She had laughed at that. And Erik soon learned she also had a penchant for humor.

Of her own volition, she admitted to bringing a kitchen knife to their first lesson in the fifth cellar. "You are a man in a mask who lives underground," she'd told him matter-of-factly, "I don't wish to die before I make my father proud. I would be sorry to do you injury, but I would be glad to outlive you."

"And if you had murdered your maestro?" he'd asked.

"I would surely confess my sins to a priest and then return to the stage. Your death would be a waste if I didn't sing, correct?"

Then she had giggled at her own jests as he felt his mouth curve up. Christine eventually left the knife behind and began to trust him as any student would her mentor, regardless of his peculiarities. And of peculiarities, he had many. He would catch her staring at the mask but she never made a point of asking why he wore it, although she did drop hints he deliberately ignored. She had asked him his name once, but when he told her it was of no importance, she deferred to calling him "maestro" and never asked again. Sensing his boundaries, she was careful to never ask anything he could not answer in one word.

But of herself, Christine spoke freely. She often spoke of her adoptive mother, a little old woman in a nearby flat and the garden of roses they tended together. She had a great reverence for La Carlotta though she had little good to say about the woman's attitude. She considered Meg Giry her dearest friend at the Garnier, and it guilted her that they were not as close as little Meg believed. She dearly missed her father and the snow of Sweden, though she could not deny the beauty of a Parisian winter.

And Erik soon found himself steeped in a lovely dream, one where an angel had looked him in the eye and smiled. He found himself thinking less of the wicked past and perhaps for the first time, he thought it was a beautiful thing to live. Because Christine existed in his life and that was enough for him to taste all the happiness in the world.

And then the opera house had welcomed its new patron, the Vicomte de Chagny.

He was a handsomely built youth with splendid taste, noble in face and spirit, and only two years older than Christine. For the coming weeks, Erik listened to Christine speak of the little boy who rescued her scarf from the sea, now a grown man who made her blush. It had been amusing at first, and Erik fancied that the vicomte would make a wonderful partner for her should his brother approve. Whenever Christine spoke of Raoul, her blue eyes would color with light and a faint pink would touch her skin.

"But there are so many women who would fall over for him, I know," Christine had said, "it's arrogant to think he would love me."

"Your boy fancies you," Erik said, quieting the unsettling tick in his chest, "and it would be arrogant to presume otherwise."

"Do you think so, maestro? What if he only sees me as a friend, after so long?"

"He would not wait by your dressing room every day if he had another lady to attend. To risk the rumors and his brother's wrath, that boy only has eyes for you. It should be him worrying about your affections."

She'd giggled again and spoke of her young man for the rest of the night. Erik had not bothered to remind her they were in the middle of a lesson, for she was lovestruck and he was content listening to her babble of the things she loved, even if that did not include her maestro.

And perhaps that was how he found himself waiting outside the merry bistro, pressed against an alley wall and privy to the drunken melodies from within. Christine had come to him earlier in the evening and with girlish glee, exclaimed that Raoul wanted her to accompany him to dinner. Most of their company would be at the celebration of Hannibal's debut, and even the Comte de Chagny would be too busy romancing the prima ballerina to notice the mingling of classes. At her joy, Erik was delighted and he'd been quick to offer his opinion on dress and shoe and subject and whatever else there was that troubled her about an outing with Raoul.

"He will love you," Erik had said, "it's impossible for him not to, even if you came to him dressed in rags."

"Oh, maestro!"

She'd moved to embrace him, and perhaps sensing his sudden stiffness, thought better of it. Instead, she allowed him to wish her luck (that he was assured she wouldn't need) and promised to attend their lesson as soon as dinner ended. They had settled at twelve.

But Christine had not returned by then.

A part of him knew the vicomte was a safe companion, but several fears pushed Erik into a blind panic and soon, he was out in the open twilight, rushing towards the bistro, cloak and all. Perhaps a boiler had exploded? Someone had attacked the vicomte and Christine was caught in the fray? Or perhaps everyone had spontaneously contracted food poisoning? And even if any of his bizarre fears come true, Erik had no idea how his presence would be of any help.

And when he arrived, the bistro was perfectly fine. He looked into the windows, only to discover that the party was lasting longer than Christine anticipated. Eventually, the doors opened and he saw the young woman walk out with her boy, arm in arm and both flushed with wine. There was a shyness and familiarity about them, two lovers perfectly made. Raoul hailed a hansom, and as he helped Christine into the seating, Erik could only marvel at how well they fit one another.

As the wheels rolled on, Erik followed, only stopping once the horse turned a corner. He had been right. The boy loved Christine, and her fears were for naught. But in place of joy, he felt only a dull ache and the chill of drifting snow. Gloved hands rubbing together, he realized it was because his worst fear had come true:

Erik had fallen in love with Christine Daae.

This was the one torment he had wished to spare himself. He touched his chest, wondering why the heart beneath chose to betray him in so cruel a way. But perhaps it had betrayed him long ago. He should never have spoken to her in the first place. And now he was here, watching her fall into another man's arms, a man he could never be. And it somehow hurt worse than every lash and burn he'd ever received.

He was sorely tempted to hunt that hansom down and shout at the boy for coming into their lives. Why not prove himself the monster he always knew he was? Why not kidnap Christine while he was at it and when the vicomte inevitably came to rescue her, he would attempt to kill the young man too. Force Christine to spend the rest of her days by his side. Erik laughed at that sordid imagery, the likes of which only he was depraved enough to think up.

He would never be able to carry it out. How could he hurt the young man when Christine loved him so? And could he even claim to love her if he tried to trap her in his hell? Perhaps once upon a time, the opera ghost could, but now he could do neither. Because he loved her.

* * *

Erik spent the first hours of midnight wandering aimlessly through the streets of Paris, farther away from the Garnier with each step. He crunched snow beneath his feet, changing direction whenever thoughts of Christine and the vicomte returned. Whatever they did in their moments of bliss was no business of his. At least away from them, he could be alone in his humiliation and wickedness.

When he finally stopped to see just where it was that his path had taken him, he looked into an empty alleyway, no doubt property of the city's less savory quarters. Buildings stood bunched together, dilapidated and covered with dust. There was however, one building slightly more decorated than its neighbors and filled with low noise. As he paused by the entrance, a woman poked her head out the door, caked with makeup and perfume.

"Monsieur, would you like to come in?" she said, coy.

It was a brothel. Without a reply, he followed her lead, entering the den of moans and laughs.

"'S' a busy night," his guide said, "all the popular girls have a guest but I can take you. I may not be so young but I can show you a good time, sir. Here, let me take your hat."

She pursed her painted lips when she saw the mask, but otherwise said nothing as he discarded the cloak. She pulled a curtain aside and had him settle upon a chaise longue. And taking her place beside him, her fingers began roaming seductively down the fabric of his thigh.

"What should we start with?" she asked.

"So long as I pay," he said evenly, "you can do anything I ask?"

"Maybe not anything," she laughed, "but I'll try."

Then gulping, he asked, quiet, "Will you hold my hand?"

She laughed again, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're funny, monsieur. Come, come, what is it?"

He looked to her, hurt, and said, "That's all there is."

The woman furrowed her brow, and tone quite different, answered gently, "Alright, love. Do you want the gloves off?"

He nodded, and still looking at him with some mixture of puzzlement and pity, she removed the gloves from his hands. She held them in her own, her palms warm against his.

"Oh, you're freezing," she said.

Erik pulled away with a mortified apology, rather ashamed that he'd subjected a stranger to his touch. But the woman grabbed his hands, bringing them to her mouth and blowing puffs of warm air between those fingers.

"Don't be scared," she told him, as if protective of her new client, "and don't be sorry, love. Not every day I get paid just for warming a man's hands."

And ignoring the tears pricking beneath his eyes, he said, "Thank you."

Releasing one hand, she moved to brush the salt on his exposed cheek. "Don't cry. Don't cry, what's wrong?"

What was wrong? He should not have lived past birth. His body was wrong, his visage wrong, his sins wrong. He should never have returned to Paris, never have met Christine, never have gone to the bistro. There was so much wrong he no longer knew if there was any part of him that was right.

As the woman dried his tears, Erik released a breath, allowing himself a moment of respite against her shoulder. And just when he felt himself close to falling asleep, the curtain ripped open from behind.

Startled, he glanced up as another man entered, eyes blazing, and yanked his host up by her hair.

"Bernard, stop!" she cried.

"I thought I told you to pack and go!" he hissed, "and you've got the nerve to come back, old crone!?"

She clawed a line of red along his cheek, and incensed, Bernard twisted her hair farther. Before he could slam her into the nearest wall, Erik lunged towards the other man, reacting before he had even registered what took place. He landed a blow directly into Bernard's eye and kicked him back, man and body toppling into the hall as the curtains ripped along.

The woman pulled herself up, shaken. Erik approached, helping her up as he checked for signs of further injury.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"I-" Then she gasped, pointing behind him with a cry of, "Monsieur!"

Erik turned in time to dodge a swing from the recovered man. He wiggled past Bernard and crushed an arm to the man's windpipe. As Bernard sputtered, Erik said, low, "Get out."

"Or what?" the man spat.

_"Or I'll kill you."_

He was prepared to finish the job, but Erik was not in the mood to commit murder in front of the stranger who'd shown him such small kindness. And taking a life on the day of Christine's triumph was sacrilegious in some way, as if he was purposely trying to stain her joy. So with some reluctance, he released Bernard and watched with contempt as the man crawled out choking on breath.

Then looking to the startled woman, Erik removed his wallet and dropped it on the chaise longue. "For your service."

"Monsieur," she said, rubbing her sore head, "we only held hands. And-"

"Forgive me," he offered meekly, "this is all I have on me- I know it's not enough for what you've done."

She protested, but he ignored the words. She had held his hand and let him weep- and for a moment, it had meant the world to him.

As he replaced his gloves, he added an afterthought, "Although this Bernard was right about one thing. You do deserve better than what this hole has to offer."

* * *

Where to now? Erik retraced his steps, thinking it time he returned to the cellars. The encounter at the brothel had comforted him somewhat and if Christine had ended her time with the vicomte, surely she'd want to tell her maestro all about it as soon as she could. He hadn't the heart to listen, but the sight of her smile would be enough to justify it shattering a million times over.

As he turned a corner, he heard a voice ask, "Monsieur?"

It was somewhat familiar. He glanced its way, finding himself face to face with the man named Bernard, his nose still dried with blood and left eye blackened.

Erik raised a brow. "You-"

And this time, he was not quick enough to avoid a blow to the back of his head. He stumbled, hat knocked off as his knees smashed into cobblestone. Dazed, he glanced around, eyes meeting a bloodied piece of plank in another man's hands. Two more men approached, solidly built and no doubt hired by Bernard for matters such as this.

Erik reached into his pocket, discovering a lack of lasso where it should be. It had been abandoned back at the Garnier in his panic, he surmised. He really was fond of making terrible choices now. He chuckled, amused at the irony. Twenty, perhaps even ten years ago, he would have sensed this pack from a street away. They would not have been able to lay a finger on him, let alone deliver this blow.

"You make a fool of me in my own den?" Bernard said, "you ought to pray I leave you alive."

Erik rose on aching knees, blinking a stream of blood from his lashes. He had a retort on his tongue, something to the effect of calling Bernard a coward for coming at him with these strangers. But he staggered, again brought down by the sting in his head. They caught him before he could fall and he failed to see whichever man drove a fist into his stomach. He had been punched before, but this particular sensation burned and rendered him immobile with hurt.

Several more fists rained down on him, striking the chest and torso until he had no choice but to double over coughing. And he could only wonder why that first punch shot such agony through his abdomen.

When they dropped him, he slammed into the ground with a harsh crack. Gaze forced on cobble, Erik saw crimson ooze through the cracks of stone. He touched his waist, fingers pressing against hot blood. Stabbed. From the corner of his eye, he saw the shard of glass between Bernard's knuckles, so small he had nearly missed it.

Clutching his middle, he attempted to crawl up, only for a foot to smash into his shoulder. Keeping him pinned down, the man above grabbed his left arm and said harshly, "This is the one you choked me with."

Bernard whistled, and Erik braced himself for what was to come. They managed to tear a cry from his throat when the plank of wood broke across his arm. Then he felt more hands touch the limb and bend. He heard the snap before he felt it. And when it dropped, Bernard stepped off him. His footsteps faded.

As he shuddered against the pain, Erik wondered if Bernard had enough of his fun. But the man returned to kick him on his side.

"Lift him up," he told the others with a dash of glee.

Erik cried out, their hands rough against the broken limb. In a sweat, he struggled, only to realize he was doing little more than swaying to and fro as the pain from his head and torso again settled in. In front, Bernard held an empty bottle of gin, no doubt fetched from the alley behind. He smashed it against the nearest wall, shattering it clean in half.

"Regret not killing me?" he taunted as the glass fell.

Perhaps it was not a real question, but Erik found himself thinking of an answer. He had been with men like Bernard all his life. They came in different shapes and cloths, but were ultimately the same pitiful man in the end. Yes, he had killed several, sometimes deserved, sometimes not. But when he imagined returning to the opera house, hands stained with some stranger's blood, he could not bear the thought of Christine's horrified eyes.

"No," he heard himself say dully.

"No?" Bernard laughed, "hit you hard in the head, eh?"

He moved closer, stooping to push the other man's cloak aside. Erik felt the lapels of his jacket move as Bernard fondled his bloodied waistcoat. And with a mirthless grin, Bernard stuck the jagged edges of his bottle into fabric and skin. Erik slumped, a cry released as the glass pressed into flesh. And perhaps encouraged by his visible pain, Bernard dug the bottle farther in, satisfied as it stained his fingers red.

When the glass at last pulled out, Erik saw his vision turn black.

"Maybe we've gone far enough? Bastard's half dead," a voice that was not Bernard's said.

Bernard seemed to consider this. Then he replied, "Not yet."

He wrenched Erik's chin upwards, and before his hand moved, Erik knew what the man had planned. Anything else he could bear. This, he could not. When Bernard ripped the mask off, Erik managed to tear free, his burst of energy so sudden the others released his arms.

"You- you're, what are you?" Bernard said, so horrified even his lips turned white.

The mask fell and Erik fell with it, a bout of adrenaline forcing him to stay awake. Laughing, or rather gasping bitterly, he said, "Come on, kill me then, kill me and forever have this in your memory."

Half stumbling, half crawling, he took hold of Bernard's wrist, pulling the bottle towards himself. "Go ahead!"

"Get- get away!"

Bernard pushed him back, and Erik hit the ground again, this time cushioned with snow. As the ice turned pink around him, he saw Bernard and his men run off, casting him anxious glances in their escape. Vision still swimming in and out of black, he moved his right hand into the now-tattered jacket and pulled out the pocket watch- it was ten to three. Surely Christine would have returned home by now, assuming the vicomte did not offer her a place to stay.

But a voice told him she would have returned to the Garnier first, eager to report on her time with the young man. And when she saw that her maestro was not there, she'd berate herself for being late and think she had somehow incurred his ire. No, he could not let her reach such a conclusion. He would not- could not- abandon her, no matter the circumstance.

After taking a moment to recollect his breath, Erik sat up, cradling his left arm. Sore every which way, he found the mask and slipped it back on. He wrapped the cloak tight around himself before he replaced the hat. And hunching in spite of his best effort otherwise, he began trekking back the way he came.

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**Thanks for giving this a chance! Nothing like an unhappy Erik to start the holidays with. Reviews are more than welcome!**

**Wrapping up next chapter with Christine's pov (spoiler alert: she will think Erik's plan of pretending nothing's wrong is stupid), and hopefully writer's block doesn't hit me before then.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I have no idea why I thought I could finish this in 2K words. But the important thing is that it's finished! Here's part 2 of this h/c saga and I hope you enjoy it! Thank you all for the support and interest!**

**Again: canon-divergence AU, with ALW-musical characters, some Yeston/Kopit influence, and my own elements sprinkled within.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO**

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When Christine returned to the opera house, half tripping and out of breath, it was well past two in the morning. The winter air had dulled her nose and she suspected it had become a pink little bud. It was not in her nature to swear, but silently, she cursed herself for losing track of the night so soon. Raoul had been perplexed as to why she needed to leave so suddenly before he too remembered the Comte had asked him home by three. And so, they parted, vowing to meet again as soon as fate would permit.

And perhaps it was fate that brought them together in the first place. Christine had spent the evening and the start of twilight lost in the blue of his eyes. Raoul was the sea embodied, a living reminder of those lovely summer days and the bliss of warm sand. As they spoke of the past and present, she had found herself giddy with his every word. She'd loved him as a girl, and she loved him still. And if Raoul's warm cheeks were anything to go by, she dared hope he felt the same.

Once the bistro became too crowded (and drunken) for their taste, Raoul had suggested they take a small trip out. Heart fluttering, Christine agreed and soon, they were shyly riding a hansom to the river bank. The water was frozen over and still the silly boy she remembered so fondly, Raoul had climbed into a rowboat anyway and invited her in.

As they played at rowing, all giggles and charm, Christine could not help but remember another boat, one she had so recently traveled within. Maestro had been right- she had been anxious over nothing after all. Then at the thought of her maestro, she had gasped and said, "Raoul, what time is it?"

He showed her his watch, evidence that she had left her mentor waiting for two hours and counting. She'd never missed an appointment with him before. No doubt he would think her irresponsible, or worse, that she had taken his help for granted and could not bother to say a word. She could have had Raoul take her to the Garnier first- say she needed to gather some things- and tell her maestro she would be late- surely he would understand if she only said something- before returning the bank.

But she'd failed to do that, and rather guilty, both for leaving Raoul so abruptly and for letting her teacher wait, Christine took the first hansom that passed by and ordered it to the Garnier without much explanation. Fortunately, Jean-Pierre was the guard on duty and seeing that he was still in uniform, Christine knew he would not leave until dawn.

"Mademoiselle Daae," he said, bushy brows hiking in surprise, "what are you doing back here?"

"I left my bag," she answered, and that was true at the very least, "will you let me in? I'd like to check my dressing room."

"Do you need me to come with you?"

Concern was in his fatherly gaze, and for a moment, Christine wished he could come along. But this was a matter she needed to settle herself; hopefully her maestro would not be too upset if her apology was sincere. She shook her head.

"Thank you, Jean-Pierre but I can manage."

"If you say so. Call for me if you need anything- I don't think anyone's in there anymore; all at that party."

Once she'd gained entry, Christine dashed to her dressing room first. Anxiously, she pounded on the mirror and called for the man within. He did not answer and she'd ended up waiting and wondering if he'd simply retired for the night. Perhaps he'd decided she would not show up and gone to bed. But was that like him at all?

She had known her teacher for some time now, a year, if not two. He was a strange man to say the least, halfway between shadow and spectre. He had never admitted it to her, but Christine had gathered long ago that he was the infamous opera ghost the ballet rats prattled on about every night. And somehow, he'd trusted her enough to show her his home and impart his music. For all intents and purposes, he had been the one to put her on stage as La Daae. And he'd asked for nothing in return.

But she did not know his name, where he came from, why he lived here, or why he owed her such dedication. She did not even know what he looked like without that mask. Even so, Christine trusted him and there was not a thing she'd yet to confide in him. Of all people, she knew he would never judge her or cast her out. He took ever insecurity and flaw in stride, and that had somehow instilled a confidence in her she never knew she had.

And indeed, it had been hard to trust a man like this at first. It would be an understatement to say that she was disappointed when he denied being the angel of music. For a split second, his voice- the most ethereal thing she'd yet heard- had made her believe father's tales existed. Had the opera ghost only said 'yes' when she asked if he was an angel come down from heaven, she would have believed him in a heartbeat.

But he'd cut that notion down as soon as she'd asked. He was only a man like any other, he had said, and it was her choice to be his pupil or not.

And so very taken by that voice, she'd agreed, if only to sing so well that she could make the angels weep (the angels that never came). But her decision did not come without caution. For their first few lessons, she'd always been on edge, half expecting him to abduct her on the spot or force her into that underground home. He was only a man, after all. And Christine had no intention of becoming some unwitting Persephone for a phantom with no name.

In time, she learned that he was every bit as honest as he first promised. And perhaps because he was so unlike anyone she'd ever met, Christine was unafraid to share her every thought with this odd maestro.

"You really have become very dear to me," she told the mirror, "perhaps dearer to me than anyone else in the opera house."

He had never judged her before, but she'd never stood him up in the past. The clock ticked towards three, and as she watched its arms move, Christine recalled the old prop room. _Of course,_ she thought, _it's so late, he might be waiting for me there instead! I'm a fool!_

Locking the door behind, Christine rushed to the room in question, almost stubbing a toe as she barged in. To her disappointment, there was no one there. She looked to the costumes, torn at their seams and hanging on racks that would never be used again. It was quite lonely staring at them and she could only imagine how disappointed he must have been in her. She took her place on the piano bench, dragging a finger over the yellow keys as she pondered what to do next.

If she could not find her maestro soon, she would bid Jean-Pierre farewell and return home. She knew Mama Valerius would be sound asleep and she saw no reason to bother her before dawn. Then she supposed she could write to Raoul and hope the Comte would think nothing of it. Writing. Yes! She could write a note of apology to her maestro and leave it hanging on one of the mirrors. But that would look odd should someone else find it first. Frustrated, she banged two keys together rather loudly.

"Christine?"

The name floated through her ears. That voice, she would never mistake. Relieved, the young woman turned, a smile passing her features of its own accord.

"Maestro!"

He was there, in the flesh, though how he had entered the room was beyond her. Bits of frost dusted his cloak, the black fabric wrapped tightly about his frame, but what confused her was the hat. The brim leaned left, obscuring the uncovered side of his face with shade so that only the stark white of his mask touched the light.

"Did you wait- wait long?" he asked quietly.

"No! No, not at all." She stood and approached. "Let me take your cloak-"

He stepped back. "No. It's fine. How was the bistro?"

"Oh, it was wonderful! I have so much to say- but first, I'm sorry, maestro, I must have kept you waiting for so long- I don't know what came over me, please don't think I'd forgotten."

He was silent for a moment, as if processing her words, and before Christine could ask if she'd upset him, he nodded. Slowly, he sat on the piano bench, without stopping to first remove the hat as he usually did. He shifted as Christine returned to her position beside him. Surely the light wasn't bothering him- there was only a dim lamp and she imagined that the wide brim was doing little to help his vision in the dark.

"You're in love," he said, so softly that she strained to hear, "it's a wonder that you remembered me at all. Thank you, Christine, for meeting me."

She bit her lip. "If this is your way of making me feel guilty, maestro, you've done so perfectly."

She saw a smile ghost over his shadowed lips, and more at ease, added, "I would never forget you. Then, do you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive." He released a long breath. "Do you forgive me for keeping you waiting?"

"I was only worried that you thought I wasn't coming!"

"Ah, always so sweet."

"Maestro-"

"Did- was the boy good to you?"

She nodded, and when he said, "tell me," she was delighted to oblige. She spoke of their fake journey in the rowboat, Raoul's attempts to sing, and all the little things they reminisced about over the night. Raoul was a perfect gentleman, a boy who had grown into a prince, and she had been so very moved when he gifted her roses he'd cut himself. But she could tell he was nervous because a smudge of sauce had gotten on his nose during supper and it'd taken her all the restraint in the world not to let him know; she'd waited to see how long it would take until he found out, and he never did until the waiter pointed at his face.

Christine knew she was babbling at that point, simply going on and on about the events of the night, which had felt so magical but sounded so mundane. Her maestro listened without interruption, only chiming in every few sentences with a soft "ah." He was certainly pleased for her, she knew, but she expected more feedback than those gentle smiles; usually, he'd have a smug quip about how he was correct in his assessment of Raoul's feelings or some word of encouragement in regards to her behavior. Surely, the sauce story would have earned a hearty chuckle in the past.

Perhaps he was bored. But he had never been bored by her rambling before. Then again, it was late and she suspected he was very tired; she was only relieved that he did not begrudge her tardiness.

"Enough about me," she told him, "Shall we warm up? I don't want you to think I'd forgotten everything you've taught me in one night."

"Of course."

He did not move, as stiff as a statue while she waited for him to touch the piano. She stood, crossing to the front of the piano.

"Maestro?"

Perhaps sensing her impatience, his right hand poked out of the cloak and brushed against the keys. His fingers danced at a slower pace than she was accustomed to, but Christine chalked it up his use of one hand. It was late, she knew. Perhaps he was too tired to use both hands.

"Aren't you left-handed?" she asked. But late or not, this choice was eccentric even for him.

"This works just as well." That was hardly an answer, but Christine didn't want to push him any longer. Her maestro seemed in a strange mood, if the airiness in his voice was anything to go by. "Come, sing."

And so, she did.

Until her rhythm was thrown off by a smashing of keys so cacophonous that she almost screeched the last note. Her mentor never made a mistake, let alone one so glaring. Half slumping, he struggled to pry his fingers away from the offending keys when she touched his hand.

"Maestro," she said, "are you all right?"

"I'm sorry- let's resume-"

Her gaze fell on a spot of mud upon the keys. That had not been there before. She squinted- it was too light to be ink and too dark to be mud. If she wasn't mistaken, it was a splotch of blood. Chest tight, she looked to her maestro.

"What's that?" she said, pointing at the spot.

He smeared it away with his fingers, the red staining the keys muddied pink. "Nothing."

Another splotch hit the keys, fresh crimson from above. It had come from him, she was sure.

"You're bleeding!" she cried.

"I'm fine, it's-" His last word was cut off by a low hiss, head slumping lower from whatever plagued him so painfully.

She grabbed a fistful of cloak, boundaries forgotten in her worry, and said, "It's not nothing. You're hurt- where?"

"I'm fine. Please, Christine, I swear it." He offered a smile, and it was far from reassuring. In the dim light, she finally saw why he pulled the hat down so far. His lip was split, a tell-tale bruise near black against his pallid chin. What else was he hiding with that wretched hat? Under the cloak in her hands?

He resumed his one-handed playing, as if oblivious to the panic on her face, and while his fingers trembled, Christine released the cloak. She did not like being taken for a fool, and she felt like quite the fool for not noticing the root of his strange behavior earlier. The trembling, the smashed keys, the left-tilted brim- her maestro was injured, one way or another, and he seemed to think she should not care.

She sang along, if only because it was what he wanted. But her thoughts wandered, thinking of ways in which he could have hurt himself and brain still wrapping around the fact that he was indeed made of flesh and blood. He had always been so imposing, a figure pale as a ghost and cut in black, something as otherworldly as the underground in which he lived. The thought of him being able to bruise and bleed like any other man was unsettling, near impossible to believe.

But she saw the blood drip down. It might have come from his nose, the uncovered nostril looking rather sore in the shadow of his hat. Perhaps that was all there was to it- perhaps he'd hit himself in the face behind those mirrors. Accidents happened even to the most graceful of men.

Yes, that was it. He would be fine.

She stopped her song to say, "Maestro, your nose."

"I'm fine. Please, resume-"

"At least let me look at it." She came to his left side. "You're bleeding all over the keys."

"I can clean later- it's nothing to worry about."

"Well, it wouldn't hurt to let me look! At least let me wipe it off-" And she pinched his arm, enough to grab his attention.

He cried out then, a sharp pained noise that startled her into releasing him. As his right hand flew in to cradle the left limb, Christine looked to her own hands in shock.

"I'm sorry!" she said, "did I hurt you-"

"No, no," he said through gritted teeth, "forgive me- I-"

He removed his hand, and as he attempted to touch the piano again, doubled over and gasped. Christine moved to help, but she was not quick enough. Balance lost, he slipped off the bench with a loud thud, the hat knocked away and cloak spread out.

_"Maestro!"_

On the floor, he lay sprawled upon his side, no more noise or move to follow. Christine fell to her knees beside him, hands roaming his face. Without the hat, she could see exactly what he'd been trying to hide and it filled her with no small horror. No accident could have caused this. Bruises mottled his left temple and cheek, harsh black and purple marks against ashen skin. The corner of his mouth held bits of dried brown, but the majority of the blood on his face came from a gash in the back of his head. She struggled to find it through his slick hair, briefly startled to discover the mesh beneath her fingers. He had been wearing a wig...

But the realization that he had likely been attacked was all the more startling. _Why did you say nothing!?_

He was not fine, far from it in fact. He was the opposite of fine! Christine pushed the fabric of his cloak away, pure terror coursing through her veins as she revealed the blood on the tattered jacket beneath. The black did well to hide the blood, but the waistcoat below was layered with scarlet. He'd attempted to bind those wounds with a piece of torn cloth, but that too had fallen away soaked wet. Bloodied fingers touched her nose- if she hadn't stayed out so long, her sense of smell would not have been rendered so useless. She should have been able to smell this stench from a room away!

"Maestro! Maestro!"

She found his left arm, the limb clearly bent and angled in ways it should not- it was little wonder then that he had screamed at her touch. Little scratches and stains wove their way through the rest of him, but as she watched the blood pool beneath him, Christine could not tell which wound was worse. In any case, he could not stay on the ground in such a state.

She called for him again, frantically patting his face. But he remained lost to her, breaths shallow and body as receptive as a wooden doll, cruelly broken by whichever child that had last beheld it.

Christine could not move him on her own. He was thin, but there was not a doubt in her mind she'd end up dragging him along the floor and she didn't dare aggravate those injuries more than she already head. She drove her fingers into her hair, trapping locks in her stained digits as she thought of what to do next. _You stupid man,_ she thought, tears pushed back,_ you stupid stupid man!_

And he had let his idiocy contaminate her as well. He hadn't said a word as she rambled on about Raoul and the bistro, and she had stupidly complied, ignorant to the fact that her mentor was bleeding to death right next to her. She had only returned to let him know she had no intention of taking him for granted. _And what did I do?_ She thought, _I couldn't even spare him an extra glance!_ If she had only been more alert, more concerned for _him_ than what he thought of _her_, she would have noticed his pain much earlier. She could have prevented his collapse, spared him the agony of listening to her pointless rambles while he suffered. But bygones were bygones and now-

"Jean-Pierre," she muttered, pulling her hands out. "Jean-Pierre!"

Christine did not know how she would explain this situation to the guard, but the man was fond of her. He had always been helpful and ready to lend a hand even when she was a nameless girl in the chorus. Surely he wouldn't protest to helping her in a dilemma as dire as this.

She gulped and took her maestro's hand in her own. Giving it a light squeeze, she told him, "I'll be back. I'll get help- you're going to live, so keep breathing. Keep breathing or I shall never forgive you, maestro."

Gently, she let him go and rising on shaky legs, ran out the room.

* * *

Christine imagined herself completely incoherent by the time she found Jean-Pierre, his silver head all but glowing in the low light. She knew he was not the only guard on duty, but at the moment, he was all she knew. She'd run up to him, voice cracked and dress stained with her maestro's blood as she sloppily explained what had transpired. Christine did not remember what she said, but she knew it was something along the lines of her tutor being in need of aid.

"He's hurt," she'd said, clutching the guard's arm, "very badly. We have to help him, send for a doctor- Jean-Pierre, please, he's fainted and-"

The guard hushed her and once her nerves were calm (as calm as she could make them), she'd been glad to lead his way. He asked little of her during the race back to the prop room. Only questions any man would ask- who was this tutor? Why hadn't he gone home?

In her panic, she'd been unable to answer either question. In truth, she would not have been able to answer even if she was in the right state of mind anyway.

"Right here, he's over here!" she said, rushing back to her maestro's side.

Perhaps Jean-Pierre was startled by the mask, but he was indefinitely more shocked by the sight of all that blood. It was certainly not the time for questions, not with a man bleeding out on the floor. Kneeling beside Christine, Jean-Pierre picked up the edges of that cloak and bundled the figure between them in a tight wrap.

As he lifted the injured man up, Christine cried, "His arm! It's broken- be careful!"

Jean-Pierre shifted her maestro so that the head rested against the guard's chest, the rest of him sagging against the weight of the arms holding him up.

"Where can we take him?" Christine asked. Going behind the mirror was out of the question. She considered taking him to her flat and hoping it would not scare Mama Valerius half to death.

"My home," the guard said matter-of-factly, "I live close by."

He looked at the unconscious man with a frown. "But we should hurry. He's in a bad way, Mademoiselle Daae, very bad."

* * *

True to his word, Jean-Pierre lived only minutes away. The coachman had eyed them oddly when he'd been hailed, both for the short distance and for the man-shaped bundle they carried. What happened next was a blur for Christine, her eyes locked on Jean-Pierre and her fading maestro.

She recalled him leading her into an old mud-colored flat, half the size of the Valerius home and filled with worn furniture that smelled of coffee. There had only been one bedroom, and it was there that Jean-Pierre placed her maestro. Then he'd left to call on the doctor, and alone with the company of a sloping candle, Christine again held her maestro's hand and beseeched him to live.

She did not know what else to ask, save _live, live live._

If he could live, she would never miss a lesson again, never laugh at his eccentricities, never set foot in that bistro if such a thing could return his health. And she would stop begrudging him for not being some angel from heaven. She would rather have her mortal teacher- with his oddities and hearty laughs and tender tunes- than a being she could not see. She would rather have a friend she could speak to and jest with and touch than whatever it was she had once wanted him to be. She wanted him just the way he was and the thought of losing that so abruptly pained her in ways she could not fathom.

Jean-Pierre and the doctor arrived to the sight of her weeping freely. And even then, she'd insisted on staying in the room. The doctor needed to do things to her maestro that were unfit for a lady's eyes. But she needed to stay and no force on Earth could move her out.

As if in a trance, she watched as this stranger snipped her maestro's clothes to shreds. She saw the dark splotches clinging to his bare chest, splashes of manmade bruise stretching across dented ribs. And below, a stomach hollowed inwards, as if he had not taken a proper meal in years, made all the worse by the blood that caked around it. The doctor sponged some of it away before he began cutting away at already ruined flesh.

Christine felt the blood drain from her own face as he pried out shards of glass lodged in the patient's skin. It reminded her of a man plucking birdseed from a bowl, not a physician pulling broken glass from her maestro's innards. He stitched the torn skin, and as that needle threaded in and out of inflamed flesh, Christine found herself unable to look away, suddenly wondering if this was reality at all.

Perhaps she'd fallen asleep at the bistro and she would wake up beside Raoul. And that man on the bed was not her maestro, but rather a doll made of clay, easily molded and smashed apart, nothing like the tutor she'd come to know.

And then, somehow, the morning hours had passed, a crack of sunlight peeking in from beyond the drawn curtains. As the doctor cleared the floor of stained linen and cloth, Christine returned to her maestro's side and sat in the physician's chair.

His left arm was bound in a tight sling, looping past the neck in a white knot. Thick gauze clung to his abdomen, layer over layer above the sutures beneath. And the rest of him remained bare, pallid skin coated with contusions and small gashes. The doctor had no clothes to stick him in, leaving every bruise and scar for her to see. And of scars, there were many, signs of past punctures and snaking whips.

"Mademoiselle," the doctor said, removing his spectacles to rest his eyes, "he should be stable now."

"I'm glad," she said, voice uncharacteristically hoarse. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Her gaze fell on the sleeping man's face, his head swaddled in bandages, bits of pale hair poking out. She touched a strand. She did not remember when the wig had fallen. Perhaps the doctor had removed it.

He had also removed the mask, too concerned with the bleeding to show any visible discomfort at what he found beneath. It was only now, when the worst of her worry had passed, that Christine allowed herself a look.

She understood now why he did not reveal the reason for his mask. The right side of his upper lip pulled back into a gnarled swell, twisting upwards into a bumpy cheek and sunken eye. Veins crossed the skin, equal parts grotesque and swollen as they converged into what remained of his right nostril, a warped pit of black. The ravaged flesh stretched further still, up to his head and under the bandage, a balding scalp beneath. Altogether, it looked like rotting flesh, and perhaps on any other day, she would have flinched in horror.

But now as she stroked that grotesque face, itself warm with fever, she was only glad that he breathed beside her. And lived.

"Do you know how this happened?" the doctor asked, "I didn't want to bother you before."

"I think he was born like this," she mumbled.

Annoyed, he said, "I was talking about his present injuries."

Christine blushed. "I- I don't know. I think he was attacked. Maybe he was robbed?"

"Likely." The doctor frowned. "I was told this man is your friend. When he awakes, consider asking him to find a less conspicuous mask."

"How do you mean?"

"I don't want to rule out any possibilities, no matter how sore. Whoever did this may have seen his face and not taken kindly. But that's an issue for the police."

Her stomach knotting, Christine glanced at her maestro again. She did not doubt their fellow men could be so cruel. And as loathe as she was to admit it, she would rather he simply be a victim of a mugging, not what the doctor implied. He would have been in enough agony without his assailants jeering at his face.

"I understand," she said. And it made the water return to her eyes.

All she knew was that he had been alone when it happened. He had bore the pain alone and tried to stifle it before her. Had their roles been reversed, she knew he would not stand for it. And what's worse, she could not stop thinking that this had happened before. He was no ghost and the proof lay in the blood he lost.

She thought of him crawling back to his cellar while the rest of them laughed above, ignorant to the man licking his wounds below. She thought of him suffering without a friend or comfort in sight, left with nothing but shadows and dust. How many times had this happened right beneath her nose? And why would he think himself so unworthy of her concern?

"What is his name?" the physician asked. "How old is he? I'm not trying to pry, only to assess."

She knew the answer to neither question. He had always thought himself so very unimportant and inside, she cursed him again. He never offered the answers so she never asked. But now she wondered if her bottled curiosity was a result of respect or laziness. Perhaps she never pressed for those answers because he had never been the source of her concerns.

"I don't know how old," she said, "certainly over thirty. Between forty and fifty? That's all I can guess. And his name… I…"

The doctor frowned, but he dropped the subject. "It doesn't matter now. When he awakes, give him my compliments. I know he tried to treat himself. Haphazardly, yes, but he did well enough a job to survive. Had your father contacted me a moment later, he would be dead."

Father? He meant Jean-Pierre, and Christine did not correct him. A lump formed in her throat. She owed the old guard so much, more than she could describe.

The doctor exchanged some final words with her as she pulled the covers over her maestro's waist, mindful of the sling. He left a bottle of laudanum on the dresser should the patient wake up in pain, but with the fever and blood loss, it was unlikely that the man would would awake within the hour.

Once he'd left, Christine looked down, realizing she'd been holding her maestro's good hand the whole time. It was only then that she noticed how _tired_ she was. Only hours had transpired, but she felt as if ten whole days had passed without a wink of sleep. And as she looked over the figure in bed, she was again trapped with the thought that this was not her maestro.

He was all skin and bones wrapped in gauze, a frail mortal that had nothing in common with the mentor she'd come to know. He seemed so small without the cloak and tails, whiter than the sheets he lay upon, a man like any other, perhaps even weaker. But as she stared at the left side of his countenance, as battered as it was, she knew this was indeed her maestro. She still recognized the arch of his brow and the high cheekbone beneath. With just a little more weight, this portion of his face would easily be among the most handsome of men.

Regardless, the sight of his comatose form stirred something within her, a protective instinct that told her this time, she would not let him suffer alone.

* * *

Christine had dozed off some time in the afternoon. Jean-Pierre lightly shook her awake near sunset. And mind sufficiently recovered, she remembered the most important matter to discuss.

"How much was the bill?" she asked, "I'll pay you back as soon-"

"Don't concern yourself with it," he told her, slipping a cup of coffee into her hands.

"But-"

"Let this old man do something useful with his salary, eh? I'd spend it on gin otherwise."

"Please, you have to let me do something for you!"

"Just rest and return to work as usual." Before she could retort, he said, "There's oatmeal in the kitchen if you're hungry. Or if… he wakes up."

And staring at her maestro's face, Jean-Pierre said, "I was going to say I'd never seen him around before. But maybe… he just avoids people. Not a good habit, though, but I see why."

It wasn't that far from the truth, at least. She neither agreed nor disagreed.

"This is the only bed," Christine remarked, "where did you sleep last night?"

"On the couch."

"Oh! I'm so sorry." Mortified, she apologized again. "I troubled you so much. Would you like us to switch? As soon as he wakes up, I'm sure we can leave-"

"Nonsense! I'm not the invalid here." Jean-Pierre grinned. He tapped her cup. "Drink this up before it's cold. And I don't get much company anyway, not since the wife passed."

"I'm sorry," she said dumbly, unable to think of a better phrase.

"She's with the angels now." He crossed his chest. Then, patting her on the shoulder, he said, "I'm off to work now. I take it you're not coming?"

"No. I have to stay."

"I figured as much."

As he turned, she said, "Jean-Pierre, you don't find me terribly strange, do you?"

"No, no," he said matter-of-factly, "I remember what it was to be in love."

In love? She gaped. She felt many things for her maestro, but loving him was another matter. What she felt for him was worlds apart from what she felt for Raoul. And yet-

"I see," she said. It did not feel right not to deny the statement. But it felt wrong to deny it as well.

What she felt for him was worlds apart from what she thought this kind of love to be, but it was a feeling nonetheless. A feeling she had never thought to ponder further. Then perhaps this was a feeling not unlike love. But she knew already what she truly felt. And she did not deny it.

Because she did love him. And in what manner, she would have to learn for herself.

"I'm off! Take care, Christine." Not Mademoiselle Daae.

Christine smiled. "Wait. Can you stop by my flat on the way? Tell my mother that I'm well, but I had a late night and am staying at a friend's."

"Of course." He winked. "And this is the truth, no?"

* * *

The sunlight hit him first, so bright it stung his eyes. Erik groaned, unsure where he was or why his body ached so profusely. The scent of coffee floated into his nose. It must have been heavy, given his terrible sense of smell in the first place. It was morning. When it dawned on him that he was lying upon a bed that was not his own, he realized this was not the fifth cellar. Given the cramped conditions, he was also sure it was not the Garnier.

Where had he been then? The brothel. Ah, the brothel. But he remembered leaving that too. He had left and- he winced. Bernard and his men had provided him with a memorable beatdown. He'd left that too. And then-

The prop room. Christine had been telling him of the bistro and her beloved vicomte. He'd done his best to listen, for as much as it hurt to hear, he really was quite glad for her. And then he'd succumbed to an ocean of pain quite independent from anything emotional. Had he frightened her off then?

But why was he here? Where was he? What-

Erik glanced down, disoriented gaze catching the dressings upon his middle. His left arm was bound in a sling and he supposed that explained the weight keeping him down. That, or his own weakness. His face felt surprisingly light. His face.

He remembered Bernard wrenching the mask away. Had the mask fallen when he toppled from the bench? Had Christine seen-

His right hand flew out, instinctively covering the deformity as he attempted to turn on his side. But he was only able to shift by an inch, body protesting from pain as he released a gasp.

"Maestro."

Christine's face came into view, hovering above him, the picture of pure concern. She had seen, she had seen, she had seen! He cowered, disgusted with himself. Had it not been enough for him to ruin their lesson? Now he had to sully her vision with his wretched visage as well? As tears pricked from hot shame, he felt her touch upon his hand (and she did not flinch).

She pried it away, and too astonished to move, he found himself face to face with her wet eyes. Had the sight of him scared her into tears? But before he could apologize, from the bottom of his broken heart, he heard her cry:

"Maestro!"

And her arms fell around him, pulling him into a soft embrace. He froze, fear and sorrow giving way to utter confusion. He felt her fresh tears wet his neck and the knot of that sling.

"I was so worried!" she blubbered. "I thought you'd never wake up!"

"Christine," he managed to croak at last.

"What happened to you?" she said, pulling apart to assess him.

The whole tale was too embarrassing to share. He shook his head, again burdened with shame. She had already seen him at his lowest. If he spoke now, surely her opinion of him would sink through the earth itself.

"Oh, what am I saying?" she told him, "it must be painful to think about. You don't have to tell me now, perhaps some day. But you were hurt so badly, I thought-"

He watched the silent tears trickle down her cheeks. It took him a moment to realize she was crying for him. He was quite used to being the cause of tears, but not in this way. Perhaps this was a dream after all. Or he had died and this was some trick of hell.

"Doesn't it… bother you?" he whispered, turning his head from her, hand again raising to cover the right side.

She grabbed his palm before it could land. And with surprising force, she pulled it towards her own face, pressing his weakened fingers to a rosy cheek.

"None of that," she said gently, "I was looking at it all night. The only thing that bothers me about it is the fact that it's caused you pain."

He was frozen, lost in her genuine gaze. He should have wept, he knew, but the confusion kept him trapped. Someone had looked upon him and not screamed. _Christine_ had looked upon him without fright. He even dared to think that in place of pity, he saw sympathy. And his mind stopped still as it tried to wrap itself around what had happened.

"Why?" he mouthed, the voice refusing to come out.

She let his hand go. "Because you are my teacher and my friend. I care about you, maestro- is that so hard to understand?"

Yes, yes it was hard to understand! How could she say such things, having seen him for what he really was? A monster pretending to be a man. He didn't dare imagine this was real. He must have hallucinated the whole thing. But he'd felt her touch. No, he'd imagined that too.

"Wait-" she said.

Erik tried to sit up. He could climb out the window now, and whoever was the owner of this room could return free of the beast. It would be for the best. He'd disappear from Christine's vision, never come near her again, and she could go off with the vicomte. She could forget him and the nightmares he caused, and live in the light she deserved.

"Maestro-"

Scraped knees shifted. As he left the pillow, he felt the sutures dig at his skin, sharply yanking him back to reality. He cried out, Christine rushing to catch him as he sunk back down, dizzied and limp.

"What are you doing!?" she snapped, "you'll tear your stitches!"

She fluffed the pillow roughly before grabbing his wrist once more when he attempted to cover his face. "I already told you! I don't care what you look like. You've scared me so much already- please just stop, stop hurting yourself!"

"I'm sorry," he gasped, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He repeated the apology until he was out of breath. Beside him, she dried her tears. And then she placed a cup of water to his dry lips, a gentle hand holding his head up. When he had his fill, she caressed his face, taking care to touch as much of the twisted flesh as she could. And she evidently ignored his bulging eyes.

"You tried to pretend this was nothing to worry about," she said, "did you think I wouldn't care? Please, maestro, don't think so lowly of yourself. If you're in pain, _tell me._ I never want to go through this again."

He still did not think himself worthy of such concern, but the lump in his throat told him he'd been moved nonetheless. No one had said such a thing to him, not in all the years of his wretched life. Of its own accord, his hand reached for hers. She took it without hesitation.

"Thank you," he said, voice cracking.

"For what?" she replied, eyes again filling with tears.

* * *

As the doctor had predicted, Christine's injured maestro had indeed slept throughout the next day and night. And then he'd awoken abruptly the following dawn, rather disoriented and as low on self esteem as she'd expected. But she believed that she'd somehow convinced him to trust her- truly trust her. At least enough to not attempt breaking his stitches again. He still tried to turn his deformity away from her as long as he could, and though it pained her that this troubled him so, she turned a blind eye to this behavior.

After a morning of weeping together, she'd thought it prudent to let him know exactly where he was and the circumstances of the night he collapsed. He was sufficiently shocked by the fact that not one, but two men, had seen his face and not turned him out on sight. As for Jean-Pierre, he did swear to repay the old man once he was well enough to leave.

"We should do it together," she told him.

She, however, did not tell him of Jean-Pierre's comment regarding love. Once they had both calmed, Christine was simply grateful that her maestro was awake- alive- and conversing with her. He'd been concerned over her missing work for him, but she'd assured him that there was nowhere else she'd rather be.

"Are you so sure?" he asked, timid.

"More than sure."

Before noon, she'd spooned him some porridge, blatantly ignoring his protests and loudly declaring her intentions to nurse him well. Of course, he hadn't the stomach to finish the meal and she'd finished the rest herself. He voiced nothing but appreciation, but Christine could tell he was flustered by the attention, unsure how to react, and some small part of her was rather tickled by that fact.

And then, sensing his waning stamina, she offered to lull him to sleep with a lullaby.

"We never did finish our song," she said.

"I suppose we didn't. Christine-"

"Just rest and listen, maestro."

He reached for her hand again, and when she grasped it, Christine heard a small gulp. He looked as if he was about to share some dreadful secret with her.

"What is it?" she said, as coaxing as she could, though her coaxing moods never lasted long.

"Erik."

Then she heard herself swallow, a heartbeat skipped as his fingers coiled around hers.

"My name is Erik," he finished.

_Erik, his name is Erik_. Christine smiled, lips curving before she had even processed the change in her expression.

"Hello, Erik," she said, "it's a pleasure to meet you."

And for the first time since waking, he smiled back. Her Erik smiled back.

* * *

**Jean-Pierre was based on Christine's guard friend from the 1990 Charles Dance series. And that ends that! If you enjoyed, feel free to review! And I hope that was a decent attempt at EC from an RC person?**

**Maybe I'll write more of this -verse in the future, but for now, it's complete. And again, thank you for clicking and reading through! Hope it was an enjoyable piece of hurt/comfort. **


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